If I ever decided to get married for some reason, fuck the dress. I'm getting the mattress.
-My art director on Vera Wang mattresses
9/24/2008
Quote of the Week
-My art director on Vera Wang mattresses
9/10/2008
Vamp in Wonderland
When you’re in a degree program in which all the males are 12 years old (under 30, whatever) and half of them are Artsy-Fartsy, a good dose of raw grown-up testosterone is rare. For someone like me, triple-digit degree testosterone comes in the form of a man who likes sports, beer, math and a smart girl in a short skirt.
So you can imagine my coquettish delight when a whole gaggle of testosterone-filled men came down recently to hang out by the Pedernales River. Since the last time I’d hung out with them all together in their collective man’s man glory was quite a while ago, I was in my short skirt and at the river before you could say “men.”
And then came the uninterrupted hours of soaking up the brilliant scent of sweat and masculinity. There was swimming, drinking, card games and shameless flirting. They blasted music that made me want to kill myself just a little bit (a good indication of triple-digit testosterone), accused each other of cheating, burst into spontaneous air guitar and called me out for using my feminine wiles to distract them from winning. But I mean, what else was I supposed to do when the tassel of beads fell off the front of my bikini top? Of course I had to inch up my tank top to replace it right away or it might’ve gotten lost. The fact that it happened in the middle of a game of Scat was just a bonus. And even though they didn’t fall for it, they loved it. And that’s all I wanted – you know, just a few moments of all their hungry, testosterone-lit eyes on me. Ok, ok, several moments. And by that I mean almost the entire evening.
There are some who may gasp, Disgusting! Aren’t you letting them objectify you?
These men are the same men who were even more turned on when I fell out of my chair laughing because one of them called a xylophone a harmonophone (“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that in front of a MUSIC MAJOR”). They are the ones who ask me what I’m doing in school, listen intently and respond intelligently. They laugh at my stories and ask for my opinion in every discussion. When I spend time with them individually, every single one of them treats me better than some of the men I’ve actually dated. They respect every significant other I bring around and they respect me.
If that doesn’t drive a girl to place her Scat cash winnings (and that was from the game BEFORE the beaded tassel) in her bikini top in return for an increased dose of respectful testosterone, then I don’t know what does.
Objectify me. PLEASE OBJECTIFY ME.
So you can imagine my coquettish delight when a whole gaggle of testosterone-filled men came down recently to hang out by the Pedernales River. Since the last time I’d hung out with them all together in their collective man’s man glory was quite a while ago, I was in my short skirt and at the river before you could say “men.”
And then came the uninterrupted hours of soaking up the brilliant scent of sweat and masculinity. There was swimming, drinking, card games and shameless flirting. They blasted music that made me want to kill myself just a little bit (a good indication of triple-digit testosterone), accused each other of cheating, burst into spontaneous air guitar and called me out for using my feminine wiles to distract them from winning. But I mean, what else was I supposed to do when the tassel of beads fell off the front of my bikini top? Of course I had to inch up my tank top to replace it right away or it might’ve gotten lost. The fact that it happened in the middle of a game of Scat was just a bonus. And even though they didn’t fall for it, they loved it. And that’s all I wanted – you know, just a few moments of all their hungry, testosterone-lit eyes on me. Ok, ok, several moments. And by that I mean almost the entire evening.
There are some who may gasp, Disgusting! Aren’t you letting them objectify you?
These men are the same men who were even more turned on when I fell out of my chair laughing because one of them called a xylophone a harmonophone (“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that in front of a MUSIC MAJOR”). They are the ones who ask me what I’m doing in school, listen intently and respond intelligently. They laugh at my stories and ask for my opinion in every discussion. When I spend time with them individually, every single one of them treats me better than some of the men I’ve actually dated. They respect every significant other I bring around and they respect me.
If that doesn’t drive a girl to place her Scat cash winnings (and that was from the game BEFORE the beaded tassel) in her bikini top in return for an increased dose of respectful testosterone, then I don’t know what does.
Objectify me. PLEASE OBJECTIFY ME.
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